


the old guard au no one asked for

by macswriting



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macswriting/pseuds/macswriting
Summary: If you've seen The Old Guard, you know what this is.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

This wasn’t the first time that he’d seen the Weeping Monk.

It wasn’t even the first time he’d seen him since everything changed.

But Gawain was damned sure of one thing.

One day, he was going to kill that man.

It was only fair. He’d killed Gawain, and now he haunted his dreams at night.

\---

Whatever kind of demon the Green Knight was, he didn’t know. He’d read the Bible, over and over, trying to find an answer. It was the only book he was allowed to read, and his fervent reading had brought praise for his faith instead of questions.

He hadn’t known why he came back at first, gasping for air through a throat that he distinctly remembered being sliced by a wide, last-chance swing from a dying Fey.

He’d punished himself so many times for that day, but no longer did the marks stay on his back. No matter what he did.

When he’d heard of yet another attack by the Green Knight, he’d borne the punishment for lying about killing the monster without a single sound. It’d finally made sense.

God had brought him back to defeat this devil.

Maybe when he found a way to keep him in the grave, he could finally have peace from the dreams that plagued him.

\---

Gawain watched the arrow fly through the air with satisfaction. That had been a true shot, and the Monk was struck in the stomach.

Yes, that had been satisfying, but the Monk managed to crawl away by the time Gawain had freed the captured Fey and walked over to end his misery quickly, not as cruel as man-bloods. That was a worry, that the man had managed to slip away even when he’d been gurgling with blood only a minute ago.

But he studied the blood on the ground and knew that the man-blood Monk didn’t have much chance of survival. Not alone, and even if his brothers found him, they might not be able to save him.

Good.

He had to get his people to safety, he didn’t have time to go and end that monsters misery.

\---

It was becoming a game of cat and mouse, and he didn’t know which he was.

Sometimes, he killed the Green Knight. Other times, he was the one who fell, but he always escaped before the demon could burn his body.

Perhaps that was what he needed to do. Burn the Green Knight. If he ever got the chance, he’d take it.

The next two times they fought, neither died. They were getting too used to each other and he didn’t like it.

He didn’t like the way his lips threatened to curve into a smile when he parried a blow that would have once killed him.

\---

Gawain stared at him through the window, feeling the same hatred he always did. Man-bloods. They always came along to ruin everything. Even the one who fought beside him now was still irritating him, talking about Nimue as though they weren’t about to die.

What if he’d said that he was a rival for the woman of his affections? Would Arthur let him die?

He already had enough enemies to worry about though and death wasn’t something that he feared.

The damned Weeping Monk was outside the mill, healed from the last time he’d shot him and he’d obviously practiced to make sure there wasn’t a repeat of that incident, and he knew from experience, being cornered never ended well for anyone.

\---

No matter how many times he punished himself for failing, the marks healed. The blood would always remain, the only proof of what he’d done, but God wouldn’t let him escape the reminders that he had a duty to do.

Each passing night made him more fanatical.

Even Father had noticed it, although he’d praised him for his dedication.

It didn’t help when the dreams were different. Sometimes he saw the Knight laughing with other Fey, or training others to fight. It was never clear enough to give him anything he could use, but he tried to recall every detail, only stopping when he realised the details were things like the way he rolled his eyes.

Sometimes he saw private moments between the Knight and strangers that always made him wake with an ache that he knew was a sin.

Damned demon could make him **_want_** , even when he hadn’t seen him for weeks.

\---

He had to buy time for Squirrel to escape. Gawain knew that he could survive the Weeping Monk. He’d already done so before, he could do it again. He wasn’t sure why the Hidden had given him this gift, but it was useful in battle. He could give people time to escape, take the blows for himself, and each of them healed.

What he didn’t like were the dreams, always of the man with his hood drawn low, fighting against Fey kind, killing them. A reminder of what he still had to accomplish.

\---

The Green Knight really needed to find a better style of fighting. Tackling people was illogical.

But he did have to admit, beyond the ridiculousness of barging people like he was actually a stag like his helmet suggested, the Green Knight did fight well. Perhaps there was a demon associated with stags? He’d have to try find out what, when the demon wasn’t trying to kill him.

He knew it was personal on some level now. They’d killed each other. There would be a final time, and he hoped that only he was standing at the end of it.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if neither of them were alive at the end of it.

\---

Even if he knew he’d heal, each blow still hurt. It wouldn’t stop him. Nothing would stop Gawain from finally taking the opportunity he had in front of him.

Nothing except for the green that spread across the Weeping Monk’s hand.

He’d seen people camouflage before. Fey people.

“How could you?”

\---

His throat was dry. The Green Knight would betray him. A public announcement of what he was would only cause someone to strike him, and when he healed, even Father would want to destroy him.

But he didn’t.

Those who knew understood clearly what the Knight was alluding to, but he didn’t say anything else.

What was the demon playing at?

\---

Perhaps the Hidden had kept forcing him to cross paths with the Monk for this reason.

To teach him of kindness and second chances. He knew he’d heal from the torture, but he wasn’t sure the Monk would heal from the damage that had clearly been done to his mind.

They’d never talked before, beyond the odd insult or threat.

Perhaps if he had, he would have realised how broken the Monk was.

Perhaps he could convince the Monk to change, but either way, Gawain knew he’d get out of this camp.

He just had to wait for them to toss his broken body aside so he could escape.

\---

He was sure the Green Knight wasn’t really dead.

Rescuing the boy hadn’t been such a certainty, but he couldn’t let him die. There was no guarantee he’d come back like he did, like the Knight did. Most Fey didn’t.

But nor could he leave the Green Knight, aware he’d wake. Once he’d rescued the boy and gotten him to agree to stay hidden in near the burning king’s camp, he made noises about going to go bind his wounds in privacy even though they’d long healed over.

He didn’t want the boy to see his fallen hero if the Knight didn’t wake this time.

Finding the Knight’s body amongst all the chaos was easy for him, with his abilities.

Sitting beside him was not so easy.

Never had he had the chance to see him up close for so long, nor so peacefully. Already, the pallor was leaving his skin, flushing with life again.

He was rather –

\---

The last thing he expected to wake to see was the Monk sitting beside him.

On instinct, he swung out, a fist crashing into the Ash man’s face. In response, he was struck back, and even if he was Fey, Gawain wasn’t letting him get away with this.

The wrestling match didn’t last long, Gawain only realising the man was holding back by the time it was too late, and a knife was sticking out of the Ash man’s ribs.

“Born in the dawn, to pass in the twilight.” He sighed over the fallen body, wishing there had been another way. But there was no time for burials, not until he knew Squirrel was safe. Three steps, and he’d made it to the edge of the tent when he heard a rattling breath behind him. He should have run, not turned around.

\---

It was petty to throw the knife that had been lodged in his heart at the Knight, but he was annoyed at both of them, so it felt like the best way to expel his frustration.

It wasn’t like it’d do anything permanent.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finally written the next chapter, hopefully it won't take me so long to write the next one. I also have finally figured out what direction I'm going to take the story (thank you Lancewain discord for letting me ramble), and I hope people are okay with big time jumps after this point. Lancelot needs to get some of that sweet, sweet redemption, but it is not the focus of my fic, so its what's happening between chapters.

Neither of them said a single word to each other, instead treating Squirrel as something of a go between, or making comments in front of the other. But it worked well enough, escaping, finding a camp to settle down in for the night, the Weeping Monk hunting something for dinner while Gawain took care of the fire. It wouldn’t work forever, but for now, it’d suffice.

He’d kept his knife, twisting it between his fingers. It’d been lodged in both their hearts just the night before, and Gawain didn’t exactly trust that the Monk wouldn’t try something if he didn’t have a constant reminder that Gawain would defend himself, and Squirrel, against any threats.

Gawain knew now that it didn’t matter how many times he killed the Monk. Obviously, the Hidden had brought him back too.

They had a cruel sense of humour.

But once Squirrel, stomach full from both men letting him have the most of the food as the Monk had only been able to catch two rabbits, had settled in for the night by stealing the Monk’s cloak and lying with his head on Gawain’s lap, Gawain knew that the lack of communication couldn’t last forever.

Otherwise, it’d be a miserable time.

Of course, the man did deserve it. Even if he was a tortured Fey, he’d hurt a lot of people, and Gawain wasn’t ready to forgive him just yet.

Perhaps it was petty to flip the knife in the air just to watch the Monk narrow eyes at him.

Gawain never said he wasn’t petty.

But even he could only take so much blessed silence before it annoyed him. He had yet to hear the Monk speak again since the tent, where all he’d said as he hauled Gawain off the ground was ‘Percival’, and expected him to follow.

He had followed, but if he knew Squirrel’s real name, that was a reason to follow.

“How long has it been?”

The knife spun through the air carelessly again. Gawain had become a little rash sometimes, aware that even if he did slip and catch the blade instead of the handle, his hand would heal, and it’d look impressive no matter what. It was a rather good way to intimidate people.

He didn’t think it was working this time.

“Last summer. I killed you, and you took me down with you.”

Gawain smiled, since it seemed the Monk was rather disgruntled with that admission. They’d been well matched in most of their fights, he did have to admit that.

“Of course I did.” He ran over all the fights in his mind since then, all the times that he’d been so sure the Monk would fall, only to find out he was tracking the Fey again. “At least you’re Fey. The Hidden giving this to a man-blood would be an insult. You’re… well, you’re one step up, ash man.”

The Monk didn’t seem to change his expression at all.

He’d have to step up his game if he wanted to get more answers out of him.

“I’m surprised Squirrel can bear to be anywhere near you.” That barb landed, from the way the Monk glanced down at the sleeping boy, and yes – that did look like grief in his eyes.

Good.

That meant he could be better than he was.

\---

Lancelot was certain that the Knight was planning on driving that knife into his heart again. It didn’t matter that it wouldn’t matter, that he’d get up again. No, there was a challenge in the Green Knight’s eyes, and Lancelot knew that this unspoken truce they had was not going to last.

The Knight looked like he wanted to stab him just to get his revenge, and honestly, Lancelot didn’t blame him.

It was extremely difficult to keep his hands away from his own weapons, and he knew the Knight had more reason to hate him.

That didn’t mean he was going to let him punish him.

He was too proud for that.

Lancelot would take care of his own punishment, thank you very much, he wasn’t a child who needed to be taught how to pay for his sins. He could pay for them on his own.

Mostly, he just didn’t want to give the Knight the satisfaction.

It was a little harder once he mentioned Percival. He’d saved the boy, yes, and now he had to walk away from the only things he knew. Even though he hoped that he’d made the right choice, unable to see the boy as damned just for being Fey, it was still difficult.

He couldn’t remember his life before he was taken.

All he knew was the Church.

He had nothing now.

“Hope you’re not thinking about using him as a trap for others.” Lancelot tore his gaze away from the sleeping boy to look at the Knight. “Again, that is.” Nearly flinching at the reminder of the first time he’d found the boy, Lancelot had to fight to keep his face straight.

“No.”

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do now, but he knew it wouldn’t be hurting more Fey.

Lancelot could not go back to the Church. No amount of punishment would ever be enough to have him return to the fold, and a large part of him didn’t want to go back. The small part of him that did, he knew it was his fears of the unknown.

But being in the Church had not stopped him from becoming whatever he was now.

Forcing himself to meet the Knight’s eyes again, there was a sinking feeling in his stomach. He hoped the despair he felt didn’t reach his eyes.

“Then what are you going to do?”

Perhaps he should circle back to his old suspicion that the Green Knight was a devil. How else would he know the very question that struck at his soul – if he even had one – and his fears? Lancelot didn’t answer, hoping that he’d come across haughty instead of unsure. He’d rather be known as arrogant than weak.

It didn’t seem to work.

“You could fight on the right side for once.” Even Lancelot couldn’t hide the surprise on his face, the expression flickering before he managed to control himself again. “Come now, brother. What else will you do? I don’t see you settling down for a quiet life. You’re a soldier. Fight for us.”

All he knew was fighting for the Church. Would it be any different to fight for the Fey?

Either way, he’d be hated his whole life, and it wasn’t like that life was ending any time soon.

But he couldn’t.

The fear of Father Carden’s wrath still lingered deep in his bones, even if his body no longer showed the shame of the past.

“You fight unlike anyone I’ve ever fought before, Monk.” Lancelot nearly flinched again. “You’re the only one who has killed me, and I suspect I’m the only one to succeed in returning the favour. Imagine if we fought together. We could protect Squirrel, we could protect all of them.”

It was easy to imagine. Too easy.

He’d seen the Knight fight firsthand. He’d seen glimpses of his life when he wasn’t fighting in those tantalising dreams. Lancelot knew too much about the man who was trying to talk him into joining his side.

Lancelot wanted it. That life, a life that seemed… well, not good, but righteous, and full of more light than he knew how to handle.

He couldn’t have it. Lancelot knew that much. No matter what he did, he would never deserve that.

It would mean something different to him if he stayed, and he couldn’t.

“No.” He cut short the Knight’s next attempt to cajole him, afraid that the answer would change if he let the fey man speak again. When he saw him open his mouth to try again, or to argue, he stood up sharply. Noticing the way the Knight’s grip tightened on the knife he’d been prettily – and probably threateningly – throwing in fancy flips, Lancelot knew his decision was the right one.

They weren’t enemies now, but they weren’t friends.

They were nothing but ghosts, haunting this world. But the Knight was loved, and Lancelot was not.

“I will not stay.” It was a soft declaration, but he needed to make one thing clear. “I will not go back, but I will not stay.” Perhaps there was another way to help, another path. He needed to find it on his own. If he stayed, he’d never be anything more than a weapon.

It’d be too easy to put himself in the Knight’s hands and be used against the Church.

It terrified him how easy it would be.

Lancelot turned to walk away before he could make the biggest mistake of his life and say he’d stay.


End file.
